


Daddy Training

by CrystallizedHoney



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abuse of a Baby Doll, Adoption, Alfred is a Drama Queen, Alternate Universe - Human, Arguing, Bad Parenting, Fluff, Humor, Ivan is the King of Patience, Lots of it, M/M, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-05-28 22:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15059084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallizedHoney/pseuds/CrystallizedHoney
Summary: Alfred and Ivan are going to have a babyfinally!Through adoption, of course. There's just oneteensylittle problem: Ivan has absolutely no clue how to care for a child. Obviously, it's time for Alfred to put his Ph.D in Daddy Training to use. The term of "Daddy" might be a bit different in this case, but he can make it work.





	1. DT1: Introduction to Having a Child

It is in the middle of dessert that Alfred receives a mysterious phone call. Little jitters race through the tiny device and send a hum through the dining table. The sound reverberates in the room, hollow and noisy.

Ivan’s eyes are drawn across the tabletop, past the empty wine glasses and the vase of yellow-headed sunflowers he’d purchased and given to Alfred two days ago, to the screen of the cellular device as it brightens with numbers. But he is unable to make out any specific details before Alfred is up and out of his seat, practically flying out of his chair in his rush to get to the other room. His husband gives an excited squeal through a mouth full of freshly baked apple pie and melted vanilla ice cream, a thoroughly muffled _hello_ after that.

Ivan has half a mind to scold Alfred for hastily answering his phone whilst in the middle of chewing. Then decides against it. Been there, done that.

Alfred’s voice filters through the closed door, words mumbled and indecipherable, though his excitement is easy to read. _Matthew, maybe,_ Ivan thinks, scrounging up possible callers capable of invoking that fast-paced, whistling tone in the man’s voice. _Feliciano?_

He gathers the dishes from their forgotten meal as Alfred’s phone call draws on, obviously not just an open-and-shut deal. Lost in his thoughts, he absentmindedly scrapes the remnants off the plates and into the trash can, fills the sink with soap and water, and rolls up his sleeves.

He’s squeezing the sponge around a dirtied spoon when Alfred returns to the kitchen, flouncing through the swinging door with a grin wide enough to show teeth.

“Guess what!” he yells excitedly, practically trembling in anticipation. If not for the lack of cellphone in the other’s hand, Ivan would wonder if the damn thing were pulsing with another phone call.

Ivan, without good reason to be, is not nearly as enthusiastic and merely raises an eyebrow in inquiry to Alfred’s sudden burst of happiness before turning back to the task at hand.

“Ivan!” Alfred whines, poking his head under Ivan’s arm and into view. That one unruly tuft of hair tickles the underside of Ivan’s jaw, then his nose. “You have to guess!”

Good-natured but somewhat exasperated by his inability to continue washing the dishes with his husband in the way, Ivan pulls away from the sink, suds and water dripping to the floor in a mess that’ll need to be mopped up later. “And why can you not just tell me as you always do?”

“Because this time it’s a surprise!”

Perhaps by chance, every other time had been a “surprise” as well, but Ivan fails to mention that. He doesn't say anything. He folds his still wet hands onto his hips and ignores the damp spots soaking through the fabric of his shirt. Silence falls between them, something Alfred can never truly stand. It’s almost pitiful how easily he cracks.

“We’re going to have a baby!”

“Very funny, Alfred,” Ivan comments humorlessly, urging the man to the side now that the cat is out of the bag. “We’re not going to have a baby. You cannot get pregnant.”

In his peripheral vision, Ivan catches a glimpse of blue eyes dramatically rolling behind smudged lenses, like crashing waves. A response all on its own. Something along the lines of: _doesn't stop you from trying, though, does it?_ He ignores this, too.

“The adoption agency called!” Alfred announces, miraculously having lost none of the elation from before, despite Ivan’s gloomy nature.

 _Oh._ The plate he has pulled from the sink slips through his wet fingers and tumbles to the tiled floor in a heap of jagged pieces. Yet another mess to clean up.

A gasp sounds and Alfred is horrified. “Oh, fuck, babe! Not the good china! We just got that.”

Ivan barely registers this. “I am not ready,” he states, calmly.

“‘Not ready.’ What do you mean you’re not ready?” questions Alfred, retrieving the broom and dustpan from the corner and sweeping away the broken disaster that surrounds their feet.

“I am not ready to have a child, so call them back and tell them we do not want it.”

Ivan dried his hands on a dishtowel and returns it back to its place draped around the handle of the oven. He leaves the kitchen in attempt to end the conversation, but he knows Alfred will be quick to follow once cleanup is complete.

Thankfully, he is given a minute to himself in the living room, to pace with worry and wear a trench into the carpet in front of the television. He takes a seat on the couch, his foot taps restlessly. He takes up the remote but quickly puts it back down. He stands, and the pacing starts again. This time, around the perimeter of the room. There is more space this way, more area to traverse.

Is he shaking? No, _no._ There is no need for melodrama here.

When Alfred enters the room, he stumbles directly into Ivan’s back.

“Iv—”

Before he can finish the word, Ivan is whirling around, a heavy-handed grip settling atop his shoulders. He is guided to the couch and urged to sit amongst the cushions. Ivan settles bodily beside him with an uncharacteristic flop that sends the furniture skittering back a few inches across the floor.

“You do not understand, Alfred. I am not ready for a child,” whispers Ivan, more so to the ceiling than his husband. “I thought I was ready but I am not ready. This is all happening so soon.”

Alfred, sweeter than the dessert and wine they’d indulged in earlier, reaches out to clutch Ivan’s hand warmly within his own. He strokes soothingly over the knuckles, gives a firm reassuring pat right above the wrist.

“I understand perfectly fine, Ivan,” he says, closing the gap between them to capture Ivan’s eyes. “I get it. You’re nervous. Unsure. All of those things that come with thrusting yourself into an entirely new situation. But, Ivan, we’ve been waiting years for this. Years of hoping and wishing and—yeah, even praying. And we all know how you feel about that one, but you did it anyway because we wanted this. _I’ve_ been waiting years before even _that_ for this. I’ve always wanted this and I’m not sure I’m willing to give that up. So, _please,_ don't ask me to.”

Of course, everything Alfred says is correct. Without any embellishment. _Years_ they had waited. Together. Constantly checking emails, never without a phone nearby. Chances came and went; a dangling carrot on a stick. Somewhere along the way, Ivan susposes he lost the hope Alfred still clearly holds. Filing the papers, answering the calls, waiting and waiting, actions that all blurred together. A sign of mindlessly going through the motions.

A dream of having a child. And a dream it became until, to Ivan, it fizzled away into something unrealistic, something that would never be gifted to them. He never truly prepared for the possibility.

Now it is here. No longer something that _could_ happen but something that _will._

“I am lost, Alfred. I do not know what I am doing,” Ivan admits in a small voice, throwing his arms about Alfred's shoulders and pulling him into a bruising embrace. “I am scared.”

Always one for physical displays of affection, Alfred snuggles in closer, hooking his hands under Ivan’s arms. He rubs slowly up and down Ivan’s back, switching back and forth between circles and nondescript polygons. When he speaks again, it is in a low mumble that Ivan feels against his chest more so than he hears in his ears.

“I’m scared, too. That's perfectly natural. Parenting is a big responsibility. Still, this is us, we’re talking about. Ivan and Alfred. We can do it. Together, when have we ever not been able to accomplish anything?”

Ivan scoffs at Alfred’s sentimentality and jokingly replies, “The Ikea furniture.”

That earns him a half-hearted elbow to the gut.

“ _So_ … Are we doing this or what?”

Ivan considers it. Runs down a mental list of pros and cons. Then he thinks of Alfred mere minutes ago, animated and overjoyed at the prospect of having a child with him. Alfred's happiness, Ivan is sure that will always trump his own fear.

“Yes.”

He wishes to hold Alfred a little more but the second he gives his answer the man is scrambling away, jumping to his feet with a puffed out chest.

“I, Alfred F. Jones, promise to help mold you into the best father figure there ever was,” he declares at the top of his lungs. “I made you into an awesome Daddy once before and I can do it again.”

Like that, the moment is ruined.

Ivan can only give a heaving sigh at the exclamation, pinching fingers at the bridge of his nose. He can already feeling the beginnings of the inevitable headache Alfred’s antics are bound to bring.

“That, Alfred, is inappropriate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yep. im gonna do it. i dont even care. join me.


	2. DT2: Genetics and Phenotypes

_Ugly._

That is the first adjective to pop into Ivan’s befuddled mind when he sees the thing Alfred’s stupidly purchased and brought home. _Hideous_ and _grotesque_ follow minutely. An understatement, if anything, those words.

“Okay, so, like, our _actual_ baby won’t be this…” Alfred stops, pressing a finger to his pouting lips in thought, struggling to find the appropriate word to describe such a repulsively sculpted figure. An impossible feat.

“Unsightly?” Ivan suggests.

But Alfred shakes his head, little cowlick bobbing along to the rhythm. Together, they turn back to the— _thing._ The little thing resting inside the plastic cradle of clashing pinks and purples on their kitchen table.

The eyelashes are sparse, the eyes wide and unseeing as they jiggle and roll at the slightest movement. The head is bald. No wispy strands or painted blob to resemble a badly worn toupee. The lips are nonexistent, simply a gaping hole with a red circle for a tongue. A sharply pointed protrusion is meant to resemble a nose.

“Revolting?” continues Ivan, like he’s sifting through the thick pages of a thesaurus. “Monstrous? _Deformed?_ ”

“No! Unattractive, I’d say. You can’t talk about a child like that,” he answers, appalled.

Ivan is equally scandalized because what he's looking at is definitely _not_ a child. A gremlin, more like. Some misshapen, accidental reanimation experiment formed from plastic. On any account, he’s certain he’s never beared witness to anything human that is this… repugnant.

“It’s a d—”

Alfred interrupts immediately, wagging a disapproving finger, a swaying pendulum between Ivan’s eyes. “Uh-unh. Our child.”

“N—” protests Ivan, barely a syllable before he’s chastised again. A slap that grazes the nape of his neck.

“Say it with me,” prompts Alfred, grabbing Ivan’s face in his hands, pulling his cheeks away from his teeth to stretch his lips. “Our… child.”

“Our… ghastly mistake, you mean.”

His ears are ringing now, Alfred having cuffed him harshly at the side of the head for backtalk. He glares down at the misfortune that is to become the physical manifestation of their pretend child. _Better than a sack of flour or an egg,_ Alfred had claimed minutes ago, slicing through the tape sealed along the edges of the box it came in with a knife.

Bernadette is the official name of the doll. Fitting; a not-so-pretty name for a not-so-appealing toy. She comes with an arsenal of items: a change of clothes, two diapers, a bottle, a blankie, a pacifier and a rattle. Obvious compensation for the face that not even a mother could love.

“Did you keep the receipt?” Ivan questions, giving the cradle a rock. It teeters, those beady eyes circle round and round, jumping like black beans.

Over the doll, Alfred shoots him a murderous glare, which, quite frankly, can mean a lot of things. However, the hand pressed protectively against the back pocket of his jeans says it all. Now that he knows there is a chance to return the wretched thing, Ivan is not going to be swayed on the matter.

“It is ugly,” Ivan says, reaching for the blanket and tossing it over the cradle to hide the creature inside. “We are taking it back.”

“No!”

Ignoring Alfred’s objections, Ivan begins to gather up the box, shoving everything into the packaging carelessly. He tosses the plastic baby in head-first. The cradle goes in next, sliding in roughly enough to practically fold the doll in half.

“Okay, okay,” Alfred concedes. “It _is_ ugly. But it was cheap so who cares? We only need to use it for a few days. Then we can, like, throw it in a wood chipper or start a fire with it or something. Preferably before it summons some sort of demon into our home.”

Ivan fantasizes about chucking the thing into a wood chipper, considers the satisfaction of seeing flames melt away the vile features of it. Would it be worth it in the end? Having to wake up to it every day, carry it around, care for it and treat it as his own, would it be worth it?

No.

“I refuse. Not for one day, not for a few days. Absolutely not, Alfred. No.”

“Oh, my God! Is this how you’re going to react when we get an actual _human child!_ ” Taking on a slouchy gait, Alfred stomps around the kitchen and adopts a painfully exaggerated accent. “‘No. Do not want. It is not cute. Please return to mother’s womb.' Well, guess what, asshole. Newsflash! Babies are ugly sometimes!”

Ivan is far from amused. “I do not talk like that. Nor do I walk like that.”

“That’s not the point!”

 

* * *

 

In the end, they come to a compromise, though Ivan is the true winner between the two. They will return Bernadette to whatever hellish department store she came from _immediately_ but Ivan is to treat the doll accordingly during the ride there. That includes: carrying it out to the car, strapping it into the car seat, and, of course, not openly referring to it as _it._

“This is stupid,” Ivan complains as he ambles down the driveway toward the car.

Alfred is currently holding Bernadette cradled in his arms, making sure to properly support her neck. He is dedicated to this, apparently.

“The only thing stupid here is you.”

“Very mature, Alfred.”

“Whatever. Hold the baby. It's time to hold up your end of the bargain,” he replies, thrusting the thing outward.

Ivan, unable to control his disgust, leans away, tucking his hands behind his back. _It_ stares up at him, peering deep into the darkest recesses of his vulnerable soul. The summer heat is sweltering, the sun is relentless, its rays beating down on them, yet Ivan shivers with chills.

“Take the baby, Ivan,” commands Alfred, fighting a swiftly dwindling temper.

So Ivan does. He grabs it by the head, four fingers across the forehead, a thumb at the back and lifts it to eye-level. _Like clutching a basketball,_ he imagines, disregarding the stupefaction that unhinges Alfred’s jaw and sends it plummeting toward the asphalt beneath their feet. While Alfred appears to be horrified, Bernadette does not seem to mind.

“That is _not_ how you hold a baby, Ivan. What the hell?”

“Yes, well, this is not a baby, Alfred,” comments Ivan, rather nonchalantly. “Be happy I am even going to bother with putting it in the car seat.”

His husband becomes an aggravated blur of blonde hair and wildly gesticulating arms, circling to the passenger side of the car.

“If you don't want to have a baby with me, that's fine! Just let me know so we can get a divorce!” Alfred calls over his shoulder before slipping into the vehicle and slamming the door hard enough to make Ivan cringe.

They are having an extremely off day. Ivan cannot help but blame the doll for their argumentative nature this afternoon. A spousal curse, no doubt. “This is all your fault,” he accuses, setting Bernadette atop the car roof. For a second, really. By experience, Ivan knows he’ll need both of his hands to untangle the belts of the car seat. And with Alfred in a foul mood, there is no other place to put it.

Music pours out onto the street the moment the back door swings open. Alfred sings along cheerily, bobbing his head to the beat of some obscure pop song, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

Ivan, happy to see Alfred is no longer fuming, sticks his head in and _politely_ asks, “Dear, how do you—”

Alfred turns the volume dial of the radio to max, smoothly switching from singing to shouting. A childish tactic to silently inform Ivan that he is ignoring him.  _So much for being in a better mood._

“Yes, thank you, sweetheart. I am learning so much from you. Great teamwork.”

The middle finger Alfred directs to the backseat does not go unnoticed.

Ivan simply shuts the door, mumbling a few choice words in Russian. Today is a disaster. Responsibilities momentarily forgotten, he climbs into the driver's seat and jabs the key in the ignition, starts up the car and peels out of the driveway, heavy on the acceleration.

By the time he remembers the doll, it is far too late. For the sake of Alfred, he pretends not to see the baby rolling down the back window through the rearview mirror. Poor Bernadette tumbles down and shoots up off the trunk and into the street. If the damned thing can speak, Ivan is sure it is now screaming out a mechanical _Mama! Mama!_

“Where’s Bernie?” Alfred inquires, twisting in his seat to see behind him.

 _Bernie_ , Ivan wants to ask, but he is hoping that no answer will stop the nosy questions in their tracks.

Alas, Alfred is a stubborn one and knows that something is amiss. The empty car seat is a dead giveaway.

“You didn't!” he cries, unbuckling his seatbelt, hand already on the door and ready to eject himself from the car. “Go back, go back!”

Ivan complies without complaint. The gig is up. They go speeding in reverse. A tad too quickly. _Much_ too quickly because it is only seconds before the car bumps, tires meeting an obstruction. _Pop!_ It goes, eliminated with minimal effort. _Ah!_ Alfred goes, shrieking in horror.

And it is clear Ivan has run over little baby Bernadette. _Oops._

Alfred is scrambling out of the vehicle before it even stops, yelling and screaming and carrying on like a banshee.

“You crushed her head! Sweet Jesus! Her eyes are gone! Her beautiful, _beautiful_ eyes.”

Ivan stays glued to his seat. He rolls down the window but makes no other moves to participate in Alfred's dramatics. Good riddance.

“Bernadette! Why, God! Why did you take our baby? Why us!”

The neighbors are beginning to pour out of their houses, eager to experience a spectacle that is not playing out on a television screen. They peek indiscreetly through bent blinds and waving curtains. Phones are being pointed in their direction, capturing images and video to be posted online later. A mess. This is all a great big mess.

“Alfred! You are causing a scene. This is ridiculous. Get in the car or I am leaving.”

“She was so young, Ivan! Our darling daughter! Why!” Alfred sobs, holding up the tire-marked remains for everyone to see. “Bernadeeeeeette! _Bernadette!_ ”

Ivan pulls off, leaving his husband kneeling in the middle of the street with a flattened plastic baby. In his opinion, the new look is nothing short of an improvement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it wasnt supposed to be like this so early but things just ran away from me.
> 
> thanks for the kudos and things. i appreciate them. the way to an author's heart is feedback. ❤


	3. Office Hours

Alfred is perched on the porch when Ivan returns home. An unsmoked cigarette dangles limply from his fingers, a long line of smoldering ashes that barely hang on. There's a streak of dirt smeared across his wrinkled brow, thick clumps of soil that cling to the soles of his sneakers. A shovel is propped up against the stairs, sprinkled with loose shreds of grass along the curve of the blade.

“A parent should never have to bury their child,” he laments, staring up at the darkening sky; a forlorn figure searching for solace in the drifting clouds.

Ivan rolls his wrist inward, glancing down at the tiny hands that travel ‘round the face of his watch. The lengthy log of ashes that marks the end of Alfred’s cigarette breaks off in a rain of dust, catching on the soft blow of a breeze and flutters away like microscopic leaves. The plastic bag clutched in Ivan’s grip rustles.

“She loved you, you know,” continues Alfred, as if drawing dialogue from the pages of a script. “Loved you even though she'd heard you say she wasn't yours.”

“Interesting.” Ivan says, void of any real emotion. _This has gone on far enough_ , is what he wishes to say.

Hours have passed, there has been time to settle, yet the show still rages on. Once Alfred gets started, the story never truly ends. _There are no small parts, only small actors._

“She asked about you. Asked for you as she lay there dying.” He laughs, resentful—jaundiced. “And what was I supposed to say? Huh, Ivan? Had to tell her you were sick. You couldn't make it. 'Cause saying 'Daddy didn’t care enough to stay’ isn't the least bit comforting.”

Ivan, too exhausted to comment any further, slowly trumps his way up to the front door, thumbing through an array of keys packed tightly together on a single silver ring. The absurdity of it all is mind-boggling. What is he supposed to do in this situation? Play along? Ridiculous. Not today.

Behind him, Alfred flicks away the dying stub of his cigarette, his prop. It hits the ground in a spark of embers that burn, a heated glow of muted red. He stomps it out, grinds the remains firmly beneath the toe of his dirt-caked sneaker, stamps out the short life of a character being portrayed.

When the door is opened and Ivan stands waiting in the entryway, Alfred flounces into their home, little lumps of dirt following each bouncing step. Another hour, another mess. The mat spread out on the porch designated for wiping one’s feet lays unused, rendered another useless decorative piece.

“Why are you like this?” Ivan asks, shaking his head in disbelief. The melodrama, the untidiness, the temperaments that come in technicolor flashes.

“Because you love me— _duh!_ ” Alfred answers with all the ease of a conversation that has been had many, many times before.

“Ah, yes. How could I ever forget.”

The door closes.

End scene.

 

* * *

 

“ _Soooooo,_ ” Alfred sing-songs, planting his bottom on the granite countertop that flanks the stove. Fingers curled around the edge to stabilize himself, he swings his legs back and forth with a playful eagerness, heels knocking into the cabinets below.

“ _Soooooo_?” Ivan repeats, eyeing Alfred curiously, cautiously.

Already, it seems, the vexations of the day are disintegrating into a misplaced nothingness, particles of volatile emotions that never were. With Bernadette gone, the curse is lifted; a valuable lesson learned. This is marriage: touch-and-go. Ivan assumes the same can be applied to the act of parenting, the trials before it.

The curtains above the sink billow outward, flapping in the cool air that intrudes on their home through the window. A fly buzzes, frantically beating its body against unyielding glass, trapped between a sliver and the mesh of a screen. _So?_ So they sit in a silence of _where do we go from here?_ Directionless.

He sets the plastic bag in his hand down on the table, leans against it, crosses his arms against his chest. Alfred remains quiet, gazes down and to the left, somewhere near the refrigerator. His legs dangle, now limp as those of a rag doll. Together, they are the epitome of _unusual_ masquerading as _normal._

“Why can we not attend a parenting class like normal people?” Ivan questions, braving the path of eggshells.

“Why should we? It's just so impersonal. Learning _next_ to you instead of _with_ you. Learning from some stranger who doesn't know jack shit about who we are as people.” counters Alfred. “Besides,  _w_ _hen_ have we ever been normal, Ivan? Tell me.”

Never, is the answer—today has been a testament to that. Ivan cannot bring himself to say it.

The cabinets are back to withstanding a rhythmic beating from Alfred’s swinging feet.

“I’m still totally pissed at you. You weren't even trying today,” he sighs.

“Sorry.”

“If you really want this, if you really love me, you have to try, Ivan. You can't just say you will and block me at every corner. Yeah, sometimes I get a little weird. But why can't we have fun? Kids like to have fun, you know. Kids... We’ll _have_ one.”

Ivan exhales noisily through his nose, expelling air until he feels as if he’s paper thin. He floats into Alfred’s embrace on the next breeze, squeezes his way between his thighs and anchors into his body with arms slung needily about his waist. Apologies press against cotton fabric, below a thudding heart and atop hidden ribs, inaudible and repetitive.

Alfred massages his scalp with gentle fingers, lips ruffling the flattened strands of his hair when he snorts and says, “I like a good stick up my ass every now and then, babe, but you’ve gotta lighten up, take it out sometimes. You can put it back in if you like. In and out if you want it to feel good.”

Inappropriate. As always.

Still willingly smothered, Ivan’s words come firm but muffled, a rumbling groan, “You should not speak like that in front of the baby.”

He feels Alfred tense.

“What baby?”

“On the—”

The words are barely out before Ivan is being shoved away. The mysterious bag suddenly makes sense. Alfred vacates the countertop and reappears by the kitchen table, nearly knocking into the dining chairs in his haste. The plastic swishes, nothing but noise as he wrestles to get ahold of the box inside. It splits, losing the frivolous battle against sharp cardboard corners.

Her name is Anna. A nice common name, albeit a bit boring. There is nothing odd about her, nothing ugly or even particularly striking. She is normal. A plain doll. All fingers, toes, lips, eyes, et cetera accounted for.

Nevertheless, Alfred is made no less excitable by these mundane things. He crushes the box against his chest, teeming with happiness like a child on Christmas day. This is more than a gift, it’s an offering. The smile that stretches his mouth makes Ivan feel utterly foolish.

Alfred lowers Anna back to her lonely spot on the table, his grin becoming something strangely wary. “Ivan… Are you sure?”

Is he? The embarrassment of playing pretend as an adult, the mistakes that are inevitable and will reveal his lack of knowledge, his insecurities, the journey that is the prelude to a single event that will change their lives forever. _Is he?_

Ivan nods, almost robotically. “I am ready to try. Honestly.”

Here it is. The silence again. The humming fly has finally given up and tries a different approach. It zips out of its entrapment of pane and mesh, and flies away only to get stuck somewhere else. _Where do we go from here?_ That question _again._ Unsaid but there. The intentional quiet. Alfred’s method of allowing Ivan a non-consequential way out. He does not take it, does not need it.

“ _Soooooo?”_

He is the one to say it this time and Alfred is keen to take the bait.

“ _Soooooo_! Thinking about you doing fatherly things gets me feeling all tingly inside. I could go for a little in-and-out right now, if you know what I mean.” He makes a circle with his left hand, jabs a finger in and out of it with his right in lewd gesture.

Ivan rolls his eyes, although he is not against the notion.

“Now come upstairs and spank me, Daddy. It’ll be good practice for any disciplinary action in the future.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im stuck between making this full-on comedy and halfing it the entire way with serious shit because this is the only story i have in which ivan and alfred actually have a somewhat cute and mildly healthy relationship.
> 
> im so happy to see people actually sort of enjoy this self-indulgent mess of a story. you beautiful people. thank you!


	4. DT3: Fundamental Physics

Admittedly, Ivan is expecting a sex-filled rendezvous in the steam of the shower—despite Alfred's frequent protests and apprehensive warnings about the _Slip of Death_ —when he receives a text message that reads, _meet me in the bathroom in 5, daddy ;)._ The bathroom? Sure, it's a little odd (for them, at least, if not out in public). All the same, it’s not entirely unusual. Where does not matter. When... Well, one can hope.

Typically, within those five minutes, Alfred will be naked and revving to go the moment Ivan reaches the door. That, however, is not the case this time around; Ivan follows the given instructions and receives nothing. Nothing but an empty room. And though Alfred is never late, he strips off his shirt anyway.

In Alfred's defense, things have not been going very _“typically”_ for them since the call from the adoption agency. So when he barges through the door lugging in a large white basin in one hand and hoisting Anna up on his shoulder with the other, he thinks it’s perfectly reasonable that he is totally bewildered when he discovers Ivan in the midst of shimmying his pants off.

“What are you doing?” they ask simultaneously.

An elongated pause, then, true to sitcom customs, they answer in unison, “What am _I_ doing? What are _you_ doing?”

Cue the laugh track.

Except Ivan, caught with his pants around his ankles, does not see the humor in the situation. “I thought you wanted to have sex!”

“Sex?” Alfred shoulders past him to drop the basin into the bathtub. “Dude, where did you get that from? Calm your loins, Mr. Viagra.”

“You called me Daddy!” Ivan accuses incredulously.

“Yeah, as in, _you’re-a-father_ Daddy.” Alfred points to the thoroughly wrapped bundle he shifts to rest in the crook of his arm. “Not _come-bend-me-over-the-sink_ Daddy."

Ivan is grateful _that_ sentence is not punctuated by indicative gesturing. The situation is painful enough without the addition of dramatized gyrating.

As a last resort, Ivan meekly adds, “You sent a winky face.”

“A winky face because I had a surprise for you,” explains Alfred with an exaggerated roll of the eyes. _“Duh!_ It’s like you don't even know me.”

It is Ivan’s turn to roll his eyes, sigh and throw his hands up in exasperation, which must look strange considering his pants are still hooked around his ankles. “Well, how am I meant to differentiate between the two without being given context clues?”

Alfred shrugs. “I’unno. You could've texted me and asked: hey, does this winky face mean you want to get pounded out, dear husband? I mean, geez! It’s not that hard.”

Knowing when to cut his losses, Ivan shuts his mouth and bends over to yank his pants back up, determined to preserve whatever is left of his dignity. This isn’t how he anticipated he'd be spending the morning. Beside him, Alfred plops down onto the closed lid of the toilet, legs crossed and gaze disapproving. Here they are: crammed together in the bathroom, he and Alfred— _and_ Anna, of course. Swallowed by silence.

Which, fortunately in this situation, never lasts long with Alfred around. He toes the edge of Ivan’s discarded shirt and quietly suggests, “Might wanna throw this back on, too, babe.”

“ _Really?_ I had not thought of that,” Ivan replies.

“ _Ooh_ , someone’s snippy,” Alfred sings. He doesn't see Ivan winding up an attack until it's too late. The tightly wound shirt whips out to snap him in the face, sending his glasses flying. “ _Ow!_ Domestic abuse! Really! In front of our child? Who, mind you, I can't even see without my glasses, you barbarian!”

Ivan lashes him again for his needless dramatics, this time catching him on the thigh. The resulting yelp is satisfying. He’d hit him again if he weren't worried about retaliation. He tugs on his shirt, pointedly ignoring the way Alfred pouts pitifully at him, rubbing his leg to soothe the pain. When his arms are halfway through the sleeves, a swift kick to the shin blindsides him and he nearly topples over.

Alfred is glaring up at him (he thinks) when he turns, the effect dampened by his unfocused eyes. “Don’t forget my glasses, asshole.”

“Such rudeness from a man who cannot see beyond his own nose,” Ivan comments.

“Something we have in common.”

Ivan frowns, self-consciously touching his fingers to his nose. Low blow. Nevertheless, because he is a generous, _forgiving_ man (and Alfred is a hazard to both himself and others with impaired vision), he retrieves the glasses from where they'd clattered in the sink. He cleans the lenses and they make a speedy exchange, baby Anna in all her blanketed glory for the spectacles.

The very second Alfred’s world of blurs becomes clear again, frames perched securely on his nose, he is up and about, chattering away. “So, _non-sexual_ _Daddy_ …” He pauses, eyeing Ivan as if expecting him to start tearing his clothes off again. When Ivan does nothing, he continues, “I bet you're wondering why I called you here today.”

Ivan nods, following Alfred with his eyes as he paces up and down the short length of the bathroom, hands clasped behind his back. He flinches involuntarily when Alfred strolls forward to stand before him, suddenly very serious and business-like.

“Since remembering not to put a child on the roof of a car is too difficult for you, I thought we'd do something easy,” Alfred elaborates, giving Ivan a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Today, you're going to learn how to properly wash an infant.”

Washing a slippery, squirming, screaming infant? Ivan is fairly certain that is the farthest thing from easy. Alas, he isn't the “expert” here. Clearly, neither is Alfred (he needs to check his credentials). Still, Ivan gave his word and said he would try. Thus when Alfred settles on his knees beside the bathtub, tapping the floor in motion for Ivan to join him, he follows accordingly.

It is a show of great strength when Ivan does not so much as grimace when Alfred proceeds to cheer, “Now strip that baby!”

 _Stripping that baby_ turns out to be a lot more difficult than stripping himself. Despite the summer heat, Anna is wrapped in several blankets; each one heavier than the last. A death sentence, if he’s ever seen one, though Alfred refers to it as practice when Ivan mentions it. Something about swaddling and being able to make one mean burrito if it ever comes down to it.  _Not a cannibalistic burrito, but a regular one._

“Ugh! This is taking _so_ long,” Alfred complains for the seventieth time, growing impatient the longer Ivan spends unraveling the layers _he_ created. He drops his head to the edge of the tub and groans.

“Perhaps if you did not dress the doll as if we will be traveling the span of Antarctica—”

“Gimme! You’re taking too long. It’s like the tablecloth trick. Watch and learn.”

Ivan does not want to watch yet he cannot look away from the impending disaster. There is no table nor is the sheet a tablecloth but Alfred does not seem to care. He sets Anna on the floor, cracks his knuckles, shakes out his hands and _tugs._ And tugs. And tugs in crude replication of a silk production trick. All the while, Anna rotates like a pig on a spit roaster, like an empty toilet paper roll after the last sheet's been pulled, until Alfred proudly shouts _ta-da!_

She is free, Ivan will give him that. However, he is certain that counts as shaking the baby— _vigorously_ , at that. Though he may not be very informed in the know-how of caring for infants, he knows that much. He opens his mouth to share this revelation then thinks better of it. He does not wish to trigger another Bernadette episode. No one deserves to endure that again. Not even his nosy, gossiping neighbors.

The kind old lady nextdoor brought over a batch of what looked to be stale, mildly burnt cookies this morning to give her condolences. Ivan didn’t have the heart to tell her they hadn't actually lost a child. He also couldn't bring himself to tell her that he found her baking highly offensive. Alfred asked if he was certain they weren't from Arthur.

The tiles are just beginning to put an ache in his knees when he is passed a successfully undressed baby and told, “Okaaaaaaaaay. Now run some water in the baby-tub-bowl-bath-thing.”

Ivan turns his head in search of said item. “The what?”

“The baby-basin-tub-bath-bowl-container-thingy-thing!” Alfred has the audacity to look at him as if _he’s_ the one who’s crazy.

“The what!”

Alfred gives him a look that is undeniably murderous. “The _thing in the tub!_ ”

“What is the name of it again?” asks Ivan, feigning innocence. “The baby-what?”

Alfred visibly deflates, shoulders hunched forward. “Stop making fun of me.”

Before the puppy-dog-eyes ploy can be put into action, Ivan relents, returning to the task. Better to get this over with now. He slides the baby-tub-bowl-bath-thing under the faucet, pulls the handle and twists it. Hot water spurts out and the little plastic bin fills in seconds. It’s overflowing, spilling around the edges when he switches the water off. Alfred is not pleased.

“Okay, dude, we’re bathing her, not drowning her,” Alfred remarks, tipping the thing over to empty it. “This isn't, like, the 1600s or some shit. And try to make the water a little cooler. We’re not trying to boil her either.”

If they still had Bernadette, Ivan would politely disagree with those statements. But this is Anna, so he fills the baby-basin-tub-bath-container thing again, muttering about lack of conservation. This time with lukewarm water, only about three inches high for a lesser chance of drowning (because this is Anna). He peers over at Alfred for approval, who nods fervently. So absorbed in what he is doing, Ivan does not realize that Alfred’s overly enthused demeanor is cause for concern.

Anna is barely in the water when Alfred starts making a racket.

“ _Waaaaaahhhh!”_ Alfred screams in ear-piercing mockery of a bawling infant. It’s quite accurate, actually. “Waaaahhhh! Waaaahhh!”

The sound, amplified by the bathroom’s acoustics, startles Ivan. He rushes to cover his ears, desperate to block out that horrid screeching. Honestly, as if Alfred wasn’t already too loud _un_ intentionally. The loss of his hands sends Anna slipping beneath the surface of the water, not totally submerged, but enough to provoke worry—if either parents were paying attention.

“Be quiet,” Ivan warns. It’ll take less than two seconds to switch from blocking out the noise to physically hindering it directly at the source by strangling him.

Alfred simply shakes his head. “You can't just tell your baby to shut up. I’m making this as realistic as possible for you. We're gonna be hearing this all day and all night, baby. Get used to it.”

There is a point to be made here but Ivan is about as interested in hearing it as he is interested in listening to Alfred’s shrill crying. While Alfred speaks the truth, the thought of anyone growing accustomed to such deafening, dreadful noise seems impossible. _He_ will be purchasing earplugs, noise-cancelling headphones, _something._

“She’s pretty much drowning, by the way,” Alfred utters nonchalantly.

“And yet you are doing nothing about it,” Ivan replies snidely.

“Look, _buddy_. This is _your_ lesson. Not mine. You have to learn the consequences of your actions. Never turn your back on your baby when you're bathing them. Definite no-no.” He wags a finger, dangerously close to poking Ivan in the eyes.

“I am going to break—”

“The baby is still drowning,” he trills.

And she is.

Ever the dutiful husband, Ivan neither breaks Alfred’s fingers or throttles him permanently mute. Alternatively, he reaches into the tub to wrench Anna from the claws of a watery death. What a surprise it is that Alfred does not start sobbing and carrying on or start up the theatrics when he lifts Anna out of the water. It appears that this little mishap will not be counted towards their Parenting Death Toll. One less buried plastic baby in the backyard.

For a spell, everything is quiet. Alfred hands him the baby wash, he grabs a washcloth; together, he and Alfred (very minimal effort on his end) work diligently to wash Anna without further incident.

Things are going well until it is time to scrub Anna's back. Ivan’s not quite sure why he does it but he flips her over and gets a stable hand under her stomach, Alfred’s hypercritical glare going unnoticed. He’s lathering the soap, enjoying the pleasant aroma of vanilla and oatmeal, when a repulsive gurgling begins. Relatively low, at first, then obnoxiously loud—like most things Alfred does.

Ivan is unamused—what he does best. “Will you stop that?”

Alfred pauses to counter, “I don’t know. Will you stop our baby from drowning? _Again!_ ” Then he is back to annoying Ivan with that disgusting burbling sound.

“What is your obsession with drowning?” Ivan inquires once the noise dwindles into nothingness.

“She’s dead,” states Alfred, ignoring the question.

“Do not be ridiculous."

“Oh, really? Because the entire time you were washing her back, her face was in the water.”

Sure enough, when he lifts the doll from the tub her face is dripping with beads of sudsy water. He raises her higher to get a closer look, not at all calculating that soap in addition to water tends to equal slippery. Under Alfred’s instructions to _get a firm grip on her before you drop her,_ he, perhaps, squeezes a little too tightly.

Anna shoots out like a rocket from between his fingers, colliding head-on with the hard tiles of the wall. The resounding thud is only slightly less disturbing than the thump as she falls into the bottom of the tub, sliding into the basin just as Alfred moves to empty it. Luck does not seem to be on their side. The water splashes directly onto the doll and Alfred screams.

“Oh, my God! I just waterboarded our daughter!”

“Why did you even do that?”

“I didn't do it on purpose! I didn't want her to fall back into the water and drown again!”

“That does not make any sense!”

“You don't make any sense!”

They’re both speaking in frantic, nonsensical babbles now.

Ivan lunges for Anna again but each time she manages to slip through his fingers at the very last second. She glides around the tub, skating rings into the porcelain.

“Get her, Ivan!”

“I am trying! She is slippery. _Everything_ in here is slippery.”

“Let me do it,” Alfred insists, shoving Ivan out of the way. “You have to, like, get a hand on her thigh or some shit. I read about it.”

To his credit, Alfred manages to keep a hold on Anna approximately three seconds longer than Ivan did. He gets a hand on her arm and the other on her thigh and lifts. Ivan is almost impressed. However, three seconds is not nearly enough to cancel out the way in which the baby hits the floor with a sickening _splat_ afterward, skidding past the sink and out the bathroom door.

“Oh, my God!” Alfred exclaims, petrified by his own mistake. “I dropped the baby! I waterboarded and dropped the baby!”

Ivan makes the fatal mistake of laughing. This is all too absurd not to. If there was anything stopping Alfred from murdering Ivan before, he is sure it is gone now.

“I drop the baby and you think it’s funny!” he yells.

“No,” Ivan lies, fighting through errant bouts of laughter. “No, it is not that.”

Alfred huffs and storms out of the bathroom, genuinely upset by the day’s happenings. Maybe he’s already forgotten Anna’s whereabouts, distracted by his ill-feelings toward Ivan. Or maybe he’s moving too fast, not paying attention to his surroundings when he does it.

There’s a pained yelp and a muffled hiss. Then several irregular bumps, each one farther away than the last like something is tumbling down the stairs.

“What was that?” Ivan calls over his shoulder, grabbing a towel off the rod on his right to wipe up the evidence of another failed lesson.

"Nothing!" Alfred squeaks, high-pitched and anxious.

Dropping the towel to the floor, Ivan stands and practically tiptoes over to the door, avoiding puddles of water. There has been more than enough slipping and sliding today. He leans against the doorframe and peeks out into the hall, scanning the area for a wet, possibly dented, traumatized baby doll. Alfred appears to be frozen in shock, staring at something at the bottom of the staircase. Not on the floor and not in Alfred's arms, there is really only one place Anna can be.

“Did you kick the baby?” questions Ivan.

It takes a while for Alfred to answer and when he does his voice is weak and strained. "No."

“Would you like the shovel?”

A sniffle. “Yes, please.”

They are going to make great parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't even get me started on this one. there is a lot to be said here. 
> 
> thanks for the kudos and comments and bookmarks! and simply for reading! this chapter took a little longer than expected but you guys do keep me going. ♡ 
> 
> if there is anything in particular you would like to see, feel free to request. i'll see what i can do.


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